


we must unlearn the constellations to see the stars

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Groundhog Day AU (sort of), Multi, Post-Finale, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It, and more angst for the road
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: Silver wakes up each time to a different day in his past.He thinks that if this is his purgatory, he can’t say he doesn't deserve it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "hey what's up"  
> "oh, i'm just taking the basic premise of a classic comedy and twisting it so that I can make it into angsty fic for about angsty gay pirates. you know how it is"
> 
> EDIT: i've have the honor of clutching my chest and gasping after seeing some talented artists work magic on things related to this fic, so check these out/check out their work!!
> 
> [lovely cover art](http://runawaymarbles.tumblr.com/post/163426738092/fic-covers-we-must-unlearn-the-constellations-to) by [ runawaymarbles](www.runawaymarbles.tumblr.com)
> 
> [here is an absolutely stunning gifset from ch. 1](http://lmwechirrut.tumblr.com/post/162771109418) by [ lmwechirrut](http://lmwechirrut.tumblr.com)
> 
> [another gif set for ch. 3](http://lmwechirrut.tumblr.com/post/163292062088) by [lmwechirrut](http://lmwechirrut.tumblr.com/)

He wakes up to the heavy taste of salt in his mouth. 

  
The sharp tang is enough to make Silver blink once or twice, his tongue darting out to taste the crystals embedded on his cracked lips. There’s a creak when he shifts his weight in his hammock, and already he can feel the warmth of the sun coming through the deck above him. As Silver lets his eyes slide open just slightly, he can see the outlines of the men in the hammocks around him, swaying softly in their sleep.

 

Then the recognition of where he is, comes, and the breath catches in his chest. 

 

Silver squeezes his eyes shut, before opening them fully once again. But he can still see the slumbering frames of the men around him. Dooley’s curly hair is faintly illuminated by the light from the porthole, as are the knuckles of Joji’s hand brushing the floor across from them, the sharp profile of Dobbs in the corner there-

 

Men that have been long dead by. Men that Silver hasn’t seen in years.

 

There’s a whistle above them, on the deck, one that Silver recognizes even after all this time as a shift change. Next to him, another man- Joshua, Silver’s mind provides the name for him- stirs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, as Silver continues to stare around him, “Feels like I just went to sleep.”

 

Silver doesn’t reply, lest a hysterical laugh bubble out instead. He shuts his eyes again, but it’s no use. This is no nightmare. There are no bloodied or screaming figures before him. 

 

No, this is something else. Perhaps he’s died, and this is his purgatory. Perhaps he is doomed to atone for his sins between the salt-sticky planks of wood of the Spanish warship, out of all things, and the sun beating on his back forever. Maybe this is hell, which he’s always known where he’ll end up after all. But as he tastes the salt on his tongue once again, he wonders why he feels so much less lonely in this moment. 

 

In the end, Silver decides to play along and he rises. He swings his feet over the side to put them in those old, scuffed boots that he vaguely remembers, as the men around him get up as well.

 

It doesn’t escape him that he has two legs. Before he can move, he just has to flex the left foot on instinct, shaking his head slightly at the incredulity of it all. 

 

He follows the men up to the deck, where he half-expects to see the ship around him on flames. But no, instead it seems as normal as his memories of Nassau could ever be, the men bustling past him back down into the ship to catch a few hours of slumber, the bitter smell of sea and wood and sweat around them. They’re anchored in the bay, and Silver can see the outline of the fort in the distance. 

 

He’s busy taking it all in when there’s a bump at his shoulder. He glances over, and nearly does a double-take at the man there. 

 

“Shouldn’t you be headed to shore?” Dufresne asks, his mouth twisted into a frown. He looks remarkably healthy for a man Silver clearly remembers putting a metal shoe through his skull. He can still hear the sickening thud. 

 

“Shore,” Silver says, somewhat faintly. 

 

“Yes, the shore,” Dufresne repeats impatiently, then squints at him. “You look terrible.”  


 

“It’s nothing,” Silver says, and he shifts his weight on his two feet. “I just had a strange dream.” 

 

“Either way, you’re late,” Dufresne informs him. “Captain Hornigold is coming in an hour’s time, and Flint has made it clear-”

  
Silver reels. Even as the man keeps on talking, he can’t believe-

 

If this is some hellish reconstruction, he realizes that it would only make sense to hallucinate _him_ as well. Silver realizes what he needs to do, what he needs to see, then, and it’s all he can think about right then. 

 

He pushes by Dufresne, not caring as the other man complains, and he makes his way to the captain’s cabin. The wooden door is closed, but Silver pushes it open, and when he steps inside, he can feel his heart fluttering in his throat. 

 

Across the room, Flint glances up from where the maps are spread across the desk. His brow is furrowed, but he’s right there in front of him, hair long and curling over his ears. Silver is not prepared for the violent relief that floods his system at the sight, and it’s like all the air has left his lungs, fixed under those green eyes. 

 

“Mr. Silver,” Flint says in a familiar, dangerous tone, and even though he hasn’t heard that particular tone in years, and it certainly does not bode well for him, Silver can’t help the smile that spreads out across his face. He lets the door close behind him, as Flint continues, “I thought I made it clear that it was in your best interests to be convincing Vane’s men on shore- why the fuck are you grinning?”

 

Silver tries to tamp down on his expression, but it’s nearly a lost cause, and he only manages to school his features after a few moments of struggling. “Apologies, captain.”  


 

Flint’s eyes narrow, and Silver is still drinking him in, cataloging every freckle, every scrape on his jaw, the pale skin on the top of his hands- “What are you looking at?” 

 

“Can’t I just look at you?” Silver replies without thinking, and he only realizes his mistake when Flint abruptly stands up then. 

 

This isn’t the Flint he remembers, but at the same time, _it is_. It’s Flint from a long time ago, before the war, before Charleston even- and even though Silver’s not quite sure what’s happening in this moment, he instinctively knows that he needs to play along to whatever this is. 

 

“You should take care to listen when I say this,” Flint says in a low, menacing tone. “Despite whatever _allowance_ I might have made towards your survival on this ship, we are not friends. You are still alive because I have allowed it. Do not mistake that for any sort of forgiveness, or any chance of a future.”  


He pauses, and perhaps if this were another world, Silver would have pursed his lips, said something smart before turning on his heel. But it isn’t, and Silver can barely _breathe_ at the sight of the man across from him. Flint must see that, for his brow slackens in surprise at whatever must be strewn right across Silver’s face, and he actually takes a step to the side of his desk, as if to get closer to Silver. 

  
“What happened?” Flint demands then, searching his expression, and Silver has never been able to stand up to that sort of scrutiny from him. 

 

He finally manages to secure his features, tugging them into a place close to nonchalance. He needs to get away, to gather his thoughts now that he’s beginning to suspect what has happened here, and he can’t- he won’t do it in front of Flint. Not now. 

 

“Nothing at all, captain,” Silver lies, heart hammering in his chest. “Is that all?” 

 

•••

 

He gets above deck, and vomits over the side. A few of the men whistle, making snide comments about too much rum, and Silver can’t find it in him to pay them any mind. He wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, tries to run his fingers through a beard that isn’t there- and god, even the shirt he’s wearing takes him back- and tries to think. 

 

The last thing Silver remembers before any of this was drifting to sleep in a tavern, far away in Bristol. Now he’s woken up on the warship, years in the past, or so it seems. It’s clear that he’s not dreaming, that somehow he has been sent into the past, but he can’t for the life of him try to piece together _how_ (or perhaps more importantly, _why_ ). 

 

Memories start to drift back to him, as he tries to gauge exactly when he’s been sent back to. They’re still on the warship, and no one is firing at the fort, so Silver has a rough estimate that it must be during the few days they spent in the harbor, plotting to take back the island from Charles Vane. Bits and pieces of memories flit back in his head, of simpler times, ones in which his greatest concern was himself, after all. 

 

Which makes him think- _Madi_. She would still be on the Maroon island, of course, tucked away in a corner where England had not grasped at with weathered talons yet. It hits him low in the stomach when he realizes he can’t seek her out. He wouldn’t have even met her for another few months at the very least. 

 

Christ. He’s making plans for the future already. Two minutes in this strange world, one where he has both legs and _Flint_ and the gold is at his fingertips-

 

The gold-

 

Silver hates that fucking gold. 

 

In that moment, he makes a decision. 

 

When the door slams open to Flint’s cabin, the captain barely has the time to glower before Silver blurts out, “The gold. It’s undefended on the island. The men all are dying from a tropical disease and it’s for our taking if we so wish.” 

 

There’s a beat, and then Flint is rising again, angry, but his face is twisted in confusion now “What do you mean?” 

 

“I mean, there are ten million pieces of gold sitting on that beach. Virtually unguarded. We have the ship, the men- we need to sail out now,” Silver says. Before Flint can say anything to that, he adds, “I can’t tell you how I know this, but you need to trust me.”

 

Flint scoffs. “Trust you? I would trust any one of the other rotten fucks on board this ship before I would trust you. Tell me how you know, and tell me now _”_

 

_“_ I can’t do that,” Silver begins after a long pause, and he takes a step back when Flint is suddenly right in front of him, now snarling and so full of righteous fury just like he remembers, it takes his breath away all over again. “I can’t. Kill me if you’d like, but I can’t tell you.”

 

“Why did you tell me,” Flint murmurs then, his voice still low but now he’s looking at Silver closely, his eyes shifting over his face. Despite how close he is to no doubt throttling Silver, Silver closes his eyes, already knowing the words that are about to come, “Why not take the gold for yourself? Surely you’ve realized that you’ve lost an opportunity for yourself by telling me this. Why not concoct some scheme in which your share suddenly goes up?” 

 

Silver opens his eyes then, and Flint’s eyes are much greener than he remembers, and he’s lost in memories that haven’t even happened yet- if they even will happen- for a moment before he answers. “Because we would be much better as partners than rivals, and I think you know that too.”

 

“You think yourself to be a worthy rival?” Flint says then, a hint of a sneer on his expression. Silver can’t help the soft smile that spreads over his face, because this Flint- still young and somehow less battered than the last time he’d seen him- still knows an opportunity just as well as Silver does. 

 

“I think that you need me, and I need you,” he says, the most honest words he’s ever said, and he’s treated to Flint’s expression of surprise, his eyes widening and softening despite his clenched fists, and Silver realizes then that he can’t let this go. That perhaps there is a gift in purgatory. 

 

Flint gives a low laugh then, his breath brushing over Silver’s face, and he takes a step back, taking the warmth of his body back with him. “Very well. We’ll go to the beach. If it’s not there, I’ll personally dispose of your body. If it’s there-”

 

“It will be there,” Silver tells him, and he thinks that Flint’s eyes glitter even brighter than the piles of gold that are waiting for them. “But what do we do about Hornigold?” 

 

“Fuck Hornigold,” Flint says decisively, taking another step back to the desk, his eyes already glazed over in thought. “We’re going after that gold.”

 

 

•••

 

In between that moment and the next, there’s a jerking sensation around his navel, and Silver gasps. Only he’s no longer there in front of Flint, changing both of their paths no doubt. Darkness flickers in the corner of his vision, and as he blinks rapidly to clear his eyes, he’s no longer on the ship, either.

 

Out of all places, he’s in Eleanor Guthrie’s office, and his hand is handcuffed to one of the ratty lounges tucked in the corner. 

 

The woman herself is at the desk, and when he sucks in another disbelieving breath, she looks up, annoyed. “Flint told me that you would remain absolutely silent,” Eleanor says tersely, nodding to the figure besides him- and if it isn’t Randall, snoring on the lounge above him. “Shall I call him back in to take care of you?” 

 

Silver wants to tell her, _Please do_ , but he figures that he isn’t immortal even in this strange world. He vaguely remembers the start to his voyage on the Walrus, the time he’d spent cooped up in the Guthrie office while Flint was out fighting god knows who. 

 

“Pardon,” he says, lifting his wrist with a clang. “I seem to have forgotten my place.” 

 

Eleanor squints at him in a look not unlike of the captain himself, but doesn’t say anything. He waits, then, as she gathers papers and leaves not long after, leaving him and Randall alone.

 

Silver then had stayed, caught between the promise of the Urca gold and terrified of Flint hunting him down, but Silver now breaks the leg of the lounge with his foot and a hard kick. Randall slides down, as the furniture groans and crumples a bit, but the man still doesn’t stir from his post-amputation haze. 

 

Silver slides the handcuff of the edge, and it’s a matter of minutes, searching around Eleanor’s office until he finds a hairpin. 

 

He rubs his wrist as he ducks out of the office, glancing down both sides before escaping down the stairwell. He sticks close to the wall, where no one pays him much mind as he slides out onto the busy street, disappearing into the crowd.

  
If Flint before was barely open to his ideas, the Flint now would most certainly rather kill him and be done with him, map be damned. He needs to make a plan- to convince Flint that he should stay alive, and more importantly stay on board.

 

He catches the arm of a man he doesn’t recognize, and smiles disarmingly like he used to. The muscles hurt on his face as he asks, “Say now, do you know when _the Walrus_ departs?” 

 

“Flint’s ship?” The man asks, and Silver nods, keeping his smile in place, even as the man takes an absurd amount of time to consider, “It’s still in the harbor. They were loading it, I think.” He glances down at Silver’s hand on his arm then. 

 

“Excellent,” Silver says, letting his arm go. Before he finds Flint, there’s someone else he needs to find.

 

•••

 

It’s only when he’s in the brothel that he remembers that then, Max was not the madam. Instead, he makes eye contact with Mr. Noonan- the name comes to him after a long moment- and he slides a pile of gold over the counter to get a room. 

 

When Max enters, Silver is surprised for a moment that the proud, controlled woman is the same in front of him. She looks pale, her eye makeup smudged, and there’s astonishment on her features when she sees him. 

 

“ _You,”_ Max hisses then, and she takes a step back towards the door. “I do not know why you are here, or how you are here, but you will get out before-” 

 

“Now hang on,” Silver says, raising his hands in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, and Max tracks his hands with her eyes, “I’m not here about the gold. I need your help.”  
  
She laughs bitterly “I do not wish to help you, John Silver,” she says. Then she must look at him, really look, because something else shifts in her eyes. “You look different.”

 

“Well, I’ve had a trying day,” Silver says, but Max’s expression shutters even more. 

 

“No,” Max says, “You are different.” She takes a step back away from him. “There is something in your eyes that I cannot place. What happened?” 

 

Silver opens his mouth, but then the door to the bedroom is slamming open. 

 

They both jump, Max moving away from the door already, but Silver is frozen under the hard gaze of Flint. He looks between them for a moment, barely glancing at Max before advancing on them- on Silver. 

 

Before he can even flinch, Flint has a hand wrapped around his throat. Heshoves him into the wall so hard that it sends dark spots into the edges of his vision. He can hear soft footsteps as Max scurries away, as he sees Flint in this particular new situation up close and personal, eyes furious just like before. 

 

If in the previous situation Flint was angry with him, he’s enraged now. There’s not even a suggestion there’s nothing but malice in his eyes, and even though it’s something Silver has lived through, it’s still jarring. 

 

“You thieving snake,” Flint hisses, and Silver gasps then, hand coming up to Flint’s wrist to no avail, scrabbling with his blunt nails. “You thought you could just escape me? On _my island_?”

 

“Wait, wait-” Silver garbles out, and Flint releases his grip just enough for Silver to cough. He squeezes again though when Silver takes too long, and Silver is reminded of how they first met- Flint’s teeth coated in blood, clutching at every last ounce of power he could muster as they watched. 

 

“Speak,” Flint orders, other hand no doubt going to the knife at his waist, the one that Silver knows he keeps there because of a failed encounter with a French sloop.

 

(The one that Flint had given him, both in the past and the future, to practice fighting in close quarters, only Silver never quite got around to giving it back, and they had been younger and it had been good-)

 

“I was no good to you chained up in that office,” Silver argues, even though Flint’s eyes have that maniacal glint about them when he’s irrational with his hatred, “There’s a reason I didn’t escape to Port Royal the moment I broke free!”

 

“You and the whore are just conniving to get that gold,” Flint snarls, and he draws the knife out fully. “By all means, try to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you here and now, be rid of you for good.” 

 

“Stop-” Silver chokes out, as best as he can with the pressure increasing on his windpipe. To his credit, Flint doesn’t continue strangling him, but neither does he remove the knife that’s now placed just above the base of Silver’s neck. “I said we could be friends. What if I told you that could be the case?”  


 

Flint doesn’t move, but he doesn’t kill Silver either, so Silver continues, “What you want for this island, it doesn’t come at a fair price. To get what you want, you have had to climb uphill, to fight with every last breath. What I am offering you, it will help you, I guarantee it.”  


 

Flint’s eyes narrow even more, and once again Silver internally curses the lack of familiar ground between them, how far they have to go by this point.  


 

“I know that you’re desperate, at this point,” Silver rushes to say, trying to get the words out before Flint can actually kill him. “I know that you need all the friends you can get. I know that you are ashamed of who you have had to become to get these things, the sacrifice, to endure the stories they tell of you in this world-” 

 

“ _Sacrifice_ ,” Flint hisses, pressing him even more against the wall. “You know nothing about sacrifice-”

 

“You wouldn’t-” Silver says, then he hisses in pain when the knife cuts ever so slightly, no doubt drawing a thin line of blood. “Fuck! Don’t-”

 

“Perhaps I’m every bit the monster in those stories they tell of me,” Flint says in a low tone then, and something in Silver’s blood runs cold at the hollowness of his tone. This is not the Flint he remembers - is it? His memories from this long ago are so blurred by nostalgia and grief that it’s possible he’s forgotten just how destructive this Flint was. 

 

“You’re no monster,” Silver gets out, trying to look at him right in the eye. “You loved once, and when they took him-” 

 

He knows it’s precisely the wrong thing to say the moment the words spill out of his mouth, careless in his hurry to get Flint to trust him, even as he shuts his mouth too late. Flint’s eyes widen impossibly, and he steps back as though Silver has managed to strike him. 

 

Even though Silver has not said the name, he knows they’re both thinking it. 

 

_He doesn’t know about Thomas_. The thought makes Silver cold on the inside, but right now, he has much greater immediate concerns, like the way that Flint has gone from spitting to utterly still. 

 

“How,” Flint says hoarsely, not even a question anymore, as his eyes now take Silver in an entirely different light. He looks betrayed _, hurt_ , not unlike when Silver had held a gun to his head in the middle of a forest clearing. Silver tries to correct this dangerous course this conversation has taken, but it’s clear that the damage has been done.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me.” The words have a finality about them, and Silver raises his hands, now free of Flint’s grasp, in a last-ditch effort. “I could tell you b-”

 

The words come to a screeching halt out of his mouth once Flint steps close once again, only there’s a sickening sound coming from between them. Silver is only dimly aware of the pain that radiates from his gut once Flint steps back again, wet knife in his hand. He can feel the warmth of blood trickling down the front of his shirt, dripping onto the floor, and he falls to his knees in front of Flint. 

 

“You-” Silver tries to get out, but already blood is filling his mouth. He slumps to the floor, then, staring up at the other man. 

  
Above him, Flint’s detached expression floats in his vision, and Silver watches as he runs a shaking hand over his jaw, the shock and emptiness of it all overwhelming. There are specks of blood on his face, Silver’s blood, and Silver has the urge to wipe it off, to touch his face once again. 

 

He closes his eyes. Perhaps this is his purgatory. 

 

He can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. 

 

 

•••

 

Then there’s another jerking sensation, a feeling that is familiar now, and Silver opens his eyes to crystal blue skies. 

 

The taste of blood is gone from his mouth, but it’s replaced by an awful kind of dryness. The sort that Silver remembers, as he runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, feeling the corners of his mouth cracking, so he knows exactly where and when he is now. 

 

They’re trapped in the doldrums on board the Walrus. The air is heavy above him, and as he squints in the sunlight, he can’t tell what time of day it is beyond the thick waves of heat that radiate down from the sun, the stillness from the lack of wind. 

 

He can hear faint groans around him, men shifting, trying desperately to hide from the heat, the lack of food, water. He remembers the heat sapping every bit of energy from his muscles, but what he doesn’t remember is which day this is. 

 

From his best estimates, time seeming to slow around him as he studies the scene before him, it’s towards the end of the time when they were trapped on the Walrus. Around the time that they had truly started down the descent of madness, a ship of desperate man trapped together like a pack of wolves in a cage for too long. 

 

Silver’s beginning to think that he’s being forced to live the memories that have haunted over the years - yet if he’s able to change the events, are they really memories? His head hurts so much, from exhaustion and lack of everything that he might fall asleep for a few moments, or perhaps days - until there’s a hand shaking his shoulder awake. 

 

Silver opens his eyes blearily to Billy looming over him. “The captain’s requesting you,” he tells him, his mouth in a grim line, and even though Silver wonders what would happen if he refuses, if he instead gets up only to throw himself over the edge into the too-still water, end this trip for good, perhaps - he rises, and he goes to the cabin. 

 

Billy leaves him at the door, and when Silver takes a steadying breath, opening the door, the sight of Flint still takes his breath away.

 

Flint is more gaunt than he remembers, and when he speaks, the tight skin of his face stretched over the hollows under his eyes, the slenderness of his starved jaw not quite hidden by the cropped beard. Even though to Silver, it seems just moments ago that Flint was sliding a knife right between his ribs, he can’t explain the clench of his heart at the sight of him being due to fear. 

 

Flint frowns, and Silver realizes he hasn’t said anything in response, as he snaps to attention too late. “Forgive me,” Silver says heavily, and those words are some of many that he should have said a long time ago. 

 

Flint keeps on looking at him, then. Silver remembers that they were the only two men on full rations, but still, his stomach clenches in protest. “You’re not well,” Flint states. 

 

A hollow laugh bubbles out of Silver’s chest. “We’re trapped,” Silver tells him, “Trapped on this ship. I don’t think any of us are doing well right now.” Even with the knowledge that they make it out of here- that they survive this - he can’t help the trickles of fearand doubt that leaks into his voice. He thinks that before, he was partially delusional by now, but right in this moment, his mind is clear and sharp.

 

Flint dismisses him soon after, and Silver leaves to go back to where he was lying down before. He wonders if he should try to change something, like he did last time, but decides to let it play out, to see if that’s the torture he needs to endure in order to get out of this pattern. 

 

Then Silver’s watching Flint put bullets into the heads of two men kneeling before him. When he goes back to his cabin, afterwards, Silver follows him.

 

They had never talked about this, Silver realizes, when he opens the door, and the small amount of light reveals Flint’s tear-stained expression. He’s slumped on the ground, in front of the bookshelves, and even as anger soon twists his features, Silver steps in and closes the door behind him. 

 

“Get out.” The words are cold, another barrier Flint tries to put up between them, yet Silver can’t look away from his contorted expression, the heave of his shoulders as he tries to hide his stuttering breaths. 

 

“Captain-” Silver swallows the title, and he says again, in a quieter tone, “Flint.” 

 

“I said _get the fuck out_ ,” Flint snarls, and Silver crosses the room and kneels down beside him instead. 

 

Flint is curled up on himself, and when Silver lowers himself, ever mindful of the peg leg, beside him, he tightens his grip on his knees so that he’s even farther away from Silver. A painful knot tightens inside of Silver’s chest, as he sees Flint looking torn between hiding his face and lashing out at Silver right then and there. 

 

“I know,” Silver tells him softly, and Flint’s eyes are bloodshot and wet and furious _but he’s there, he’s right there in front of him_ , and Silver isn’t about to give that up, even if it means dying by his hand again and again. 

 

“Whatever you’re trying,” Flint says thickly, and even when he swabs a sleeve over his face, Silver keeps watching him, “I’d advise you to reconsider, Mr. Silver.” 

 

Silver puts a hand on his shoulder, then, and Flint stiffens under his palm. “I know,” Silver repeats, and now there’s an ugly expression brewing on Flint’s face. 

 

“Why?” Flint demands. “What are you doing in here-”

 

“I’m sorry,” Silver says again. He’d scream it to the world if he could, if that would convince the man in front of him. In this time then, he’d thought Flint to be a god, one who reached through miles of clouds in a divine act to pull a storm into their path, just to suit his own needs. In front of him now, Silver is reminded of the man behind that power, the one who had his world ripped out from underneath his feet and was paying the cost for what the world had deemed his crime.

 

“You don’t know anything,” Flint tells him in a low voice, and Silver winces for reasons that this Flint doesn’t even know, not yet. 

 

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” Silver says, and Flint makes a noise low in his throat. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to carry this burden, by yourself. I’m sorry.”

 

Flint’s still staring at him, and Silver readies himself for this pained Flint to lash out, maybe to break his neck, dash his head on the heavy desk behind him- 

 

But then Flint’s exhaling, the air leaving his lungs in a stuttered sound. He lets his head fall back onto the bookshelf, and Silver watches him, hand still on him. 

 

“The Titan Atlas,” Flint says, his eyes now closed, and Silver swallows, “He was forced to hold up the sky for all of eternity. When Heracles needed to collect the golden apples from Hera’s garden, he came to Atlas, and he offered to hold the sky for him so that Atlas would collect the apples.” 

 

Silver lets his fingers spread out ever so slightly on the warm point of Flint’s shoulder, feeling the muscle move underneath, as Flint continues, “But when Atlas came back with the apples, he didn’t want to go back to holding the sky. So Heracles asked for his help for a moment, to allow him to adjust the weight. When Atlas complied, Heracles had tricked him into shouldering the heavens once more, and then he left with the golden apples.” 

 

“Are you comparing yourself to Atlas?” Silver asks after a long moment, watching the flutter of Flint’s eyelids. “Am I the one who tricks you?” 

 

Flint opens his eyes then, and Silver can see the dried paths of his tears still etched on the surface of his skin. “If I were Atlas, I would have never given up the weight,” Flint says, “It is worse to think that there might be relief from such burden. However fleeting the happiness is, it always goes away.”

 

That lesson, Silver knows. He lets his head fall forward, until he can feel each of Flint’s shuddering exhales on his skin, and they sit there on the ground for a long time, as Silver is helpless against Flint’s inner turmoil. 

 

He thinks he prefers Flint killing him, after all. 

 

•••

 

He feels the tug at his center, and when he opens his eyes next, this time Silver finds himself on Maroon Island. 

 

There’s a warmth at his side, and when Silver turns his head, he’s greeted by the sight of Madi curled up next to him, her hand resting lightly on his chest. 

 

She looks so young as Silver watches her sleep, a luxury that he had somehow forgotten over the years, before her dark eyes open slowly. “Either sleep or get up,” Madi murmurs, but there’s no heat in her words. “I’ll not have you thinking so loudly right now.”

 

Silver reaches over so that he can put a hand on the side of her face, and Madi leans into the touch, her face unlined and unworried. “My apologies,” Silver says, a lump in his throat, and he leans in to kiss her. 

 

Madi hums in reply, and when Silver pulls back once more, her eyes are already open. “You should go now,” Madi says, a yawn briefly coming over her. “He will be waiting for you.”

 

_Flint_. Silver remembers then, the clang of metal on metal, the countless afternoons they had spent on the top of the cliff practicing and talking. Something in his face must show, for Madi opens her eyes more, taking in his expression. “John?” 

 

“Nothing,” Silver gets out, and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, trying to hide his shaking. “You should rest.” 

 

Madi makes an assenting noise, then her eyes already slipping closed once again. It’s relatively early in the day, and Silver remembers how Flint had made him practice twice a day, in the morning and in the afternoon, when he had gotten better at swordplay. Then, Silver had grumbled at being awake at such an early hour, because war or not, they all required sleep. Flint had laughed, his face open and eyes fond, because of course he only needed a handful of hours to keep going. 

 

Silver slips out of Madi’s grasp once she’s asleep, carefully pulling a blanket over her fully before he puts on the peg leg that’s lying beside the bed. Flint will have a crutch waiting for him up at the cliffside, Silver remembers, and when he leaves the hut, he wonders if this time, he’ll be allowed to stay. 

 

He thinks if he were to be allowed to choose a time to stay in, it would be now. In this time, before Nassau is ruined, before he digs up the gold, before he watches Flint over the barrel of a gun, before it all is destroyed. 

 

He thinks that with whatever is happening, he should savor these memories as much as he can before he is cruelly yanked away. 

 

The village is quiet as he cuts through the rows of huts and buildings, and as he makes his way up into the hill, the path coming back to him as he walks, Silver can see the sun just beginning to rise over the dark line of the ocean.

 

Flint is waiting for him, facing the sea with his arms crossed behind him. Silver approaches quietly, but just as he remembers, Flint hears him. He turns around just as Silver reaches the top of the hill. 

 

“Shall we?” Flint asks, picking up a sword, and Silver lets himself breathe in. 

  



	2. Chapter 2

Silver dodges, and he can hear the soft swish of the blade passing by his head. But before he can move again, the sharp edge is lightly pressed at the junction of his neck and shoulder. The sword in his own hand freezes.

 

“Good,” Flint says, his sword at Silver’s throat.

 

Silver huffs, batting the sword away with his own. He’s been careful not to give away the fact that he has ten years of experience using a sword that haven’t happened yet, but it is a fact easier said than done. “I wouldn’t call that a success,” he says in turn, adjusting his crutch to be fully upright. “I’d be dead."

 

“You’re getting better,” Flint replies, tapping at the crutch with his blade. “Your pivots on this are getting cleaner. Besides, it’s to be expected that I’d best you."

 

“I’ll just have to exceed your expectations, then,” Silver retorts, and he’s missed this, this back and forth, even as his side still smarts from an earlier blow, when he had been too slow to dodge. “Give you a taste of your own medicine."

 

Flint laughs, low and quiet, and Silver watches from behind the few pieces of his hair that have floated into his vision as the other man rolls his shoulders out. “If only I could teach you how to wield a sword as quick as your mouth."

 

This Flint is simultaneously the one that Silver remembers most fondly, and yet he’s the most terrifying. Flint’s face is loose and open, looking far more at ease than a man fighting a war should appear. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he had smudged together his memories of Flint, into some otherworldly being. He remembers Flint’s expressions as varying from hurt to angry to hopeless, all shades of a ghost he’s long tried to forget. In the wake of all the tragedy, he had forgotten the happier moments, the other precious details, as brief as they were. 

 

Like how Flint’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughed, or how the muscles in his jaw twitch when he tried to keep a straight face, or the way the stubble on the upper curve of his throat is never quite evenly shaved. 

 

Silver wants to dig his fingers into this time until he draws blood, wants to cling onto it with both fucking hands and never let it go. 

 

“Now,” Flint directs, positioning himself into a starting position once again, and Silver mimics him, “Start with your left. Focus on the positioning of your wrist-“ 

 

He hasn’t had a sword in his hand without inflicting deadly purpose for years - never mind against a skilled swordsman like Flint. As the morning goes on, Silver can feel the sweat dripping down his back from the exertion, feels the muscle in his leg pull and throb as he continues to spar with him.

 

Eventually, Flint stops, sticking his sword back into the sand. He goes to sit down on the grassy edge of the hill, while Silver picks up the hem of his shirt to mop his face off. When Silver glances over to him next, Flint’s eyes are on him, the sun positioned to their side just so, so that his beard and the short crop of his hair is lit up in shades of gold and red. 

 

“You should tell me, whatever it is,” Flint says, clasping his hands lightly in front of him. He looks solemn, even regal sitting on the ground there, and Silver lets his shirt fall back down. 

 

“What’s that?” Silver attempts for levity, but Flint levels him with a look that doesn’t buy the lightness of his words. The only indication of any hesitance is that his fingers are twitching slightly, like he wants to spin the rings around his fingers, but doesn’t want Silver to notice that. 

 

“There’s been something on your mind for the entire morning. I assumed that you would be more amenable to discussing it after our practicing,” Flint says. 

 

Silver watches the light glint off of the metal. “I’m not sure you would believe me,” he starts, and rushes to continue when it looks like Flint might interject, “It’s not- it’s nothing to concern yourself with, honestly.” 

 

Flint studies him for a long time, enough so that Silver can nearly feel the heat from his gaze warm his skin like the sun above them. “I don’t think that’s true,” Flint says, quietly.

 

Silver sits down across from Flint heavily, then, and looks at his own hands. This Flint is perhaps the only one that would understand him - the one who had known him when they were both burning bright and high in the sky like a runaway star. Before they both crashed to the ground. 

 

So he tells him. 

 

To his credit, Flint doesn’t immediately dismiss him, even as his brow furrows and he looks more perplexed than anything when Silver finishes speaking, for several long moments. “How long did you say it has been for you?”

 

"It’s been days for me,” Silver says quietly. “Days of being trapped in this state.” 

 

“No, I meant how long since-  since you were in your life,” Flint says haltingly, a line appearing in his forehead. 

 

Silver swallows. “A long time.” 

 

They’re both silent for a few minutes, as Flint turns to look out at the sea. Today, there are only a few clouds dotting the sky, and as Silver follows his gaze, to where he watches as the clouds drift across the sky. Silver watches him. 

 

“Where were you before this started?” Flint asks, not looking at him. 

 

Silver exhales. “Bristol,” he says. He thinks of the tavern, the one that had felt empty since Madi left, full of space that gold couldn’t fill. 

 

 “You speak of this as thought you are trapped in a dream,” Flint says finally, turning to meet Silver’s eyes once again. “Do you think that you might have just woken up from that?"

 

“No, I don’t,” Silver says, and he can hear the frustration that’s coloring his tone, because he doesn’t know how to even begin to express whatever this is. Each time he meets Flint’s eyes, it’s like he needs to remember to breathe all over again. “I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. I remember - and I don’t know how or why.” 

 

The line deepens on Flint’s forehead. “All right.” 

 

“If you don’t believe me, you should just say so,” Silver snaps. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m not sure I believe myself but don’t _coddle_ me.” 

 

“I'll believe you,” Flint says, and his boots lightly hits against Silver’s. Silver feels the sensation travel all the way up his leg, up his spine, as Flint continues, “Stranger things have happened in this world.”

 

“I’m not quite sure what world you’ve been living in, but this doesn’t quite fall under the realm of normal,” Silver retorts, and then he bites his tongue. 

 

Flint smiles, but it’s not a happy expression. He looks down. “I suppose none of this falls under the realm of normal.” Silver can’t see his eyes, but he can still recognize that distant expression that grows over Flints’ features, the way he looks both lost and like he’s stuck in this moment as well. Trapped in memories, like Silver is right now. 

 

He’s caught by the sudden urge, that he wants to reach out and touch him, but he knows that then, he wouldn’t have. He doesn’t want to risk leaving this space - this time - or worse yet, ruining this precious memory. Silver wasn’t a brave man then. 

 

He isn’t now.

 

“Apologies,” Silver says after a long pause, and Flint looks right back up at him. "It’s been a- trying time, to say the least.” 

 

A strange look comes across Flint's face, and although he doesn’t say anything, the confusion seems to be replaced with something else. Silver asks, “What is it?”

 

“You just apologized to me,” Flint says, and there’s a sort of resigned tilt to his mouth. “You’ve never done that before."

 

 

•••

 

 

Eventually, Silver leaves Flint at the cliff, heading back down to the village. Each step down the hill, his peg leg sinking down into the sand, hurts just a little more, but he barely gives it any notice as he’s caught in his thoughts.

 

Madi is in the middle of getting dressed when Silver reaches the top of the stairs to stop in the doorway of the room. He watches as the soft lines of her bare back disappear underneath the blue cotton of the dress she’s chosen, as she straightens out the heavy skirt. A lump forms in his throat when he remembers these days, when they were falling in love, as Madi looks over to him briefly before slipping her arms through the short sleeves. 

 

He had been too stupid, too young to know then, but now, as Silver watches her pile her hair on her head so that she can tie it up, he can already see the bright leader she had turned out to be. He can see it in her careful posture, the glint in her eye - how had he at all been surprised when it had hurt her so deeply that he took her away from it all?

 

Madi glances over her shoulder at him, then, and she turns so that her back is entirely facing him. “Don’t just stand there.” Her mouth quirks up in a teasing smile, though. “Help me?"

 

Silver smiles, putting aside the twisting pain in his chest in favor of crossing the room. He lets his fingers graze along the tops of her shoulders as he begins to fasten the tiny buttons all down the back of her dress. “Are you off, then?” 

 

Madi sighs, and he can feel her shoulders tense up slightly. “I am going to discuss the plan with my mother. Then I am to oversee the training of some of the new men."

 

“They’ll need to be sailors in order to survive the attack on Nassau,” Silver tells her. He’s caught for a moment in a violent memory of gunfire, salt water burning in his throat, before Madi shifts again. She looks back questioningly at his still hands, but when he continues, she turns back around again.

 

“Flint has convinced my mother. He has convinced you. But I still remain unsure on the success that attacking Nassau will appear to the other islands."

 

The tone of her voice when she speaks of him is strange, enough so that Silver grasps at his memories of this time- then he remembers. Before they had thought him dead, Madi and Flint had been cordial, but certainly far from friendly. In the short time he had spent being held captive by Hands, something had shifted between them.

 

His fingers pause at the very top button, right under the nape of her neck. “What is it?” Madi asks, feeling him stop. 

 

“I know you have every reason to dislike him,” Silver says. He lets the final button slide from his fingers, neatly through the small loop on the back of her dress. “But he’s a good man.” 

 

Madi makes a small, stubborn sound in the back of her throat, and then she turns around when he lets her go. “I know what you think. But while you have your views, I have mine. A man like that is not one to be lightly trusted, regardless of any appearances of friendship.” 

 

“It is not just an appearance,” Silver says despite himself, and Madi raises her eyebrows.

 

“We shall disagree, then,” and she says it with such finality, and Silver can’t help but smile. But the expression still feels foreign on his face, even  though then he smiled far more than perhaps any other time in his life - and Madi must see something in that, as she reaches up to touch his face. “What is it?” 

 

“Nothing,” Silver lies. “I missed you.”

 

She huffs out a laugh. “You just spent the entire night with me.” 

 

“It’s never enough,” Silver says, and in this he's honest. “I don’t deserve you."

 

He could weep at the gentleness of the gesture, when she runs her thumb against his jaw. “Do you want to talk about it?” Madi asks, dark eyes fixed on his face. 

 

 Silver closes his eyes, shakes his head. She kisses him, as he leans into her, but she pulls away before long. 

 

 “Rest,” Madi tells him, and Silver leans in for another kiss, just because he can, and her mouth is soft as it curls into a smile that he hasn’t tasted in far too long.

 

 

•••

 

 

He goes over to the bed, folds his arms behind his head. He remembers this, the long stretches of time while they were on the island. He lets his gaze settle on the numerous books lining the shelves of the books, trying to recommit every detail to memory. 

 

 Silver's not sure how long he stays there until there’s a knocking sound, that alerts him to another’s presence.

 

Flint is standing in the doorway. “Pardon for the intrusion,” Flint says, then lifts up the two plates in either hand, “I brought food.”

 

“Then you’re a welcome figure,” Silver says, sitting up on the bed. He feels breathless for a moment, and Flint quirks an eyebrow in response. Silver sits up to lean against the headboard, while Flint hooks an ankle around the chair’s leg to pull it by the bed.

 

They eat in silence for some time. Silver’s in the middle of chewing when Flint abruptly says, “I thought about what you said.”

 

Silver swallows. “What I said?” 

 

“You caught me by surprise,” Flint says, and he sets down his plate. “I believe you. But that doesn’t explain your behavior, I’ve realized."

 

Silver looks at him. “My behavior?"

 

“You keep looking at me,” Flint says, and Silver sets down the piece of bread, hearing that tone of voice and thinking of a misty forest. “I don’t think I survive this war.”

 

The food turns ashen in Silver’s mouth. “What did you just say?” 

 

“I didn’t ask before, because I don’t know what you don't want to tell me,” Flint says, and Silver sees that Flint is absolutely assured of this. More horrifyingly, he doesn’t look anything other than thoughtful at this, as he states, “But it might answer that question.”

 

“The question?” Silver croaks, because he can’t move, not that he knows what to do. 

 

“You looked at me like you saw a ghost,” Flint says steadily, and his mouth twists just slightly. “Tell me I’m wrong.” 

 

“Flint,” Silver says, something akin to panic building in him, and he lifts his hand. “I can’t-“ 

 

“I know,” Flint says then, almost soothingly, and when he stands up from the bed, Silver’s hand is left clenching onto thin air. “Tell me one thing though.”

 

 Silver opens his mouth, then closes it. 

 

“Do we win this?” 

 

 Silver still doesn’t say anything, but something on Flint’s expression twists, exposed like an raw nerve. 

 

“Oh,” Flint says, looking as though all the air has left his lungs. “Oh.” 

 

“Flint,” Silver tries again, as Flint turns rapidly, going to the door. “Flint-  _James.”_

 

The use of his name makes Flint stop - the Silver now didn’t do that either. Silver clenches his fist, feels the blanket crumple underneath his fingers. 

 

He pictures the weight of the sky pushing down on Flint’s hunched shoulders. He imagines stretching his arms through the universe, beyond the stars, just to try to reach his face, to provide any comfort. But he knows what he needs to say, what Flint deserves, and it’s not Silver’s touch. 

 

Silver takes a deep breath in.

 

“Thomas is alive,” he says, and for a moment, the weight is lifted. Flint’s mouth parts, but then his jaw tightens in automatic denial. 

 

“Don't,” Flint says, in a low voice. “I don’t- why would you-“ 

 

“Listen to me carefully,” Silver says to him, and he stands up as though he needs to command Flint’s attention in this moment. “You can’t ask me how. But Thomas is alive, and you’re going to find him.”

 

From this angle, he can see clearly when it comes crashing back down. As Flint takes a step back, a disbelieving sound coming from deep inside of him, Silver doesn’t reach for him, but he keeps on talking. 

 

He’s always been good at that. 

 

When Flint finally leaves the room, Silver sits back down, heavily, on the bed. Flint is heading to the harbor right now, to take a ship to Savannah under the cover of night, or so Silver imagines - so he hopes. It won’t matter, he realizes now, that he isn’t meant to stay in any one of these worlds.

 

 Perhaps he can fix something, though, before he is torn away again. This time, he’s not pointing a gun at Flint. This time, it’s before the chest or Skeleton Island - this time, he doesn’t have to drag Flint unwillingly to Savannah, doesn't have to watch him walk through those iron gates. 

 

When he had seen Flint’s momentary expression of hope, before the shock had set in, Silver realized that he was in love with him. It had taken too many years and too many missed chances, but he understands what it was- what it is - now. For a man who once prided himself on the ability to seize any opportunity, he had let it slip out of his hands once again, but this time, he knows the consequences.

 

He thinks that the realization should stun him. It should be like a bolt of lightening rippling through the sky, striking right at him, something he would have never predicted. Instead, it’s like he's looked up at the sky just now, at the turbulent clouds that have been brewing and brewing high above him, that he's noticed. It's like he's just now feeling the first drops of rain fall on his face.  

 

 He puts his head in his hands. “Damn you,” Silver mutters, and he stays like that for a long time. 

 

 

 

•••

 

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he’s pulled into the next time, feeling that tug just as he wakes up, Silver opens his eyes to see a dark wooden ceiling.

 

 After a few moments of listening, he recognizes where he is. He’s on the ship that had led him to Nassau in the first place, that merchant vessel. He won’t even see the Walrus for several weeks, as the recent acrid scent of London still hovers over the ship. 

 

The grief comes next, and he curls into himself, in the musty-smelling hammock. 

 

Silver spends the day on the ship, mindlessly going through the tasks that are assigned to him. He doesn’t talk much - not that he did, on that journey, when he just come from the miserable life on the other side of the ocean. He doesn’t even go by Silver on this ship, and when one of the men call him by his other name, it’s a muted surprise before he responds. 

 

After his shift is done, Silver goes back to his hammock. He falls asleep thinking about getting caught in the rain. 

 

 

•••

 

 

The next time he opens his eyes, though, he isn’t asleep when he comes to on another day. He’s standing upright, and it takes every nerve in Silver’s body not to flail around for a moment as he tries to regain his equilibrium. He shifts restlessly, anyways, and then he’s forced to clench his jaw as pain radiates up his left leg.

 

It must be soon after it was amputated. Silver glances around, and he sees that most of the men’s attention is focused on ship they’ve pulled up alongside. There’s a chill in his bones, then, as Silver recognizes that ship. He remembers what comes next, and his surprise turns into steely determination. 

 

“You!” Silver barks, turning to the man nearest to him, who looks at him with surprise. “Board the ship. Alert the captain and the vanguard to come back immediately.” 

 

The man obeys him, and Silver turns to the next one. “Get me a glass,” he orders, and waits for the men to reappear on the deck of Hallendale’s ship. 

 

The clouds are already gathering in the distance, Silver notices grimly, but at least he has yet to spot Hornigold’s ship in the distance through the spyglass. He waits impatiently, as the men follow his orders to get ready to sail once again. 

 

Then Flint back over the railing onto the Walrus, his face thunderous, with Billy right behind him. He stops right in front of Silver, then, and Silver squares his shoulders.

 

“Mr. Silver,” Flint bites out. “Explain yourself.” Silver does not fail to notice that his hand is on his pistol. 

 

“Captain,” Silver says as calmly as he can, “This ship is a trap. We need to leave.”

 

Flint’s eyes are boring into his. “A trap?” 

 

“To get to here, we’ve been put in a vulnerable position, and I suspect that there’s a ship tailing us with her sails reduced,” Silver tells him, remembering the worlds that Flint had said then, and says again with more urgency, “ _Captain."_

 

Flint looks at him for a moment longer, then without moving his eyes from Silver’s face, says “Mr. DeGroot.  Get us underway.”

 

Silver is careful not to let his sigh of relief become to visible, but then Flint is right next to him, his mouth by his ear. “A word,” he says in a tone that bodes no argument. 

 

The door is barely closed when Silver starts to speak. “The positioning of the ship is ideal in case a hunter-"

 

“I know how hunting ships work,” Flint says flatly, a sneer starting to form on his face. “What I am more interested in is how you think you know.”

 

Silver pauses. There are dark circles under Flints’ eyes, but he's nearly vibrant with anger. This is a man that Silver has no difficulty seeing murdering an entire magistrate’s family to prove a point, and Silver knows he must tread carefully in the next few minutes.

 

“It was a gut feeling,” Silver says. “It was brought on by the fact that there are many ships who would love to engage in a battle with us. There was nothing on that ship,” he adds when it looks like Flint is about to interject, “Was there?"

 

“Only a dead captain,” Flint says grimly, but he’s still looking at Silver with mistrust. “You didn’t answer the question.”

 

Silver opens his mouth to speak, but then there’s shouting coming from outside.

 

Billy opens the door, and his face is pale, and Silver’s stomach drops before the other man even opens his mouth. “Sails, captain.” 

  


 

•••

 

They end up having to sail into the storm.

 

When they see Hornigold’s ship, Silver begins to think on how he’s going to convince Flint to _absolutely not sail into the ship killer,_ but then he sees Flint’s defiant expression, as his voice carries out so that all the crew is helplessly drawn to follow his orders. 

 

He knows this is an argument he will not win. So he grits his teeth, before giving the order to prepare the ship for the storm, as Flint oversees. 

 

When Muldoon brings up the fact that they’ve sustained damage from the cannons, Silver immediately orders him to stay with the other men. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, glancing up at where Flint is positioned on the foredeck, as he thinks of Muldoon’s tattooed hand slipping out of his own. 

 

Down below, he can feel when he storm hits them, as the wooden belly of the ship groans and shudders all around him. The rest of the men are above deck, as he can hear the muffled footsteps, just before the wind picks up and they’re thrown into chaos. 

 

Water starts gushing in through the holes as Silver hastens to patch them up. He keeps an eye on the cannons to the far side of the ship while he hammers wood pieces into the holes, and that’s why he doesn’t notice the footsteps coming down the ladder. 

 

“What the fuck were you thinking, down here?” Flint barks out from where he’s on the steps, as Silver jumps and nearly puts a hammer through his own hand.

 

“I’m trying to make sure the damn ship doesn’t sink!” Silver shouts over the din of the water rushing in through the holes, the howling winds audible even down here. Above their heads, the storm rages on, and they both have to hang on when the Walrus hits a large swell. Silver’s peg leg catches in one of the grooves, and he barely manages to catch himself from slipping.

 

“What are you doing down here?” Silver demands then, still holding onto part of the wall. In response, Flint makes his way to the bottom of the ladder, then sloshes through the water until he’s right there beside Silver. 

 

“Helping you,” he grunts, plucking the hammer out of Silver’s hand. “Hand me that block.”

 

“Get the fuck back up- “ Silver starts, until there’s another wave and he has to grab onto the inside of the ship. Flint regains his balance a moment before him, and he reaches by Silver to get the piece of wood wrapped in cloth. 

 

Anger rushes through him. “ _Captain_ , the crew needs you above deck, or better yet, battering down with the rest -“ 

 

Flint sends him an incredulous look. “Now is not the time for you to assume you have the right to lecture me-“ 

 

“No, now _will_ be the goddamn time,” Silver snaps, and he’ll pay the consequences of Flint staring coldly at him for his outburst if he would just-  “Just -“ Another wave crashes into the side of the ship. 

 

“You told them not to come down here,” Flint says loudly, and with a grunt, he drives the block into one of the bigger holes. “You couldn’t put aside your _pride -"_

 

“Fuck you-“ Silver gets out hotly, but then they both fall silent at the same time, when the ship groans dangerously around them. It’s a different noise than before, and Silver can feel his heart pounding in his chest. 

 

Flint glances over at him, and they both look at each other for a long, drawn out moment. 

 

The ship catches another huge swell, then. Silver looks over just in time to see the cannon shift dangerously from the other side of the ship. He barely has the time to blink before he’s lunging at Flint, catching him around his middle and _pushing_. 

 

Flint makes a surprised grunt, but Silver is caught by the searing pain that’s running up his leg, then there’s a shock of white-hot pain that causes him to lose all his senses. 

 

He loses track of time. Somewhere above him, he can hear a muffled voice, and eventually Silver regains enough control, if only to groan quietly. 

 

“Silver!” There’s Flint’s voice again, but Silver can barely hear him. 

 

He coughs, finally, feeling something rattle in his chest. He can taste blood, and he doesn't remember when he closed his eyes to start with. 

 

“ _Fuck-_ “ Flint swears, louder than before, and Silver opens his eyes to find him, squinting through the haze that’s come across his vision. “You _fucking idiot-"_

 

Flint is twisted beside him, and his face is drawn from where Silver is looking up at him. His shoulder is at a strange angle, and Silver frowns, tries to shift and get closer - 

 

“You need to move,” Flint says then, brisk if it wasn't for the tightness in his jaw, and belatedly Silver realizes that his hands are grasping at Silver’s shoulders. “We need to get this off of you.” 

 

He’s been caught by the cannon. If Silver could take more than shallow inhales, he would bitterly laugh.  It’s then, too, that Silver realizes that he’s partially submerged in water, small waves lapping at his chest. The water’s steadily coming in through the wall, and as the ship shifts under them, Silver sees what’s going to happen. 

 

But instead, he looks up at Flint.

 

“I think,” Silver starts, but then another cough wracks his system, and he loses his train of thought.  

 

He comes back to Flint swearing, and looking more and more pale each minute. 

 

“I can’t feel my legs,” Silver says, and Flint shuts his eyes. “Leg and a half. I suppose that’s some mercy.” 

 

“I’ll figure out a way,” Flint says, opening his eyes again, and Silver watches as his head turns, as he cranes his neck trying to see if there’s a rope or something to pull at the metal weight, “There’s always a way. Isn’t that what you said-“ 

 

“Flint,” Silver tries, and Flint’s eyes meet his. He looked horrified, even as Silver lets a small smile flit out on his face. “It’s all right.” 

 

“Why,” Flint whispers, even though Silver can just barely hear him over the water still rushing in through the holes. “Why would you do that?” 

 

“Because,” Silver says. “Because you still… you still…” 

 

The edges of his vision are getting foggier as he continues to try to breathe in and out. He supposes it’s some comfort that he can’t see beneath the water, now up to his collarbone, at whatever’s happened to his lower half. 

 

“Because you still need - you need someone to pull you out of the water,” Silver gasps out, and Flint’s eyes are wide and so green above him. 

 

“Silver,” Flint says again, sounding more urgent, and Silver forces his eyes open. He reaches up at Flint, grasps onto the soaked material of his shirt. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he grits out, or maybe he tries to, and it’s all garbled sounds -  because now he sees Flint in front of him, the Flint he had last seen on an island far away from here. The Flint that might have loved him back, a long time ago.  “I’m sorry I did all of that. I just wanted you to be happy, even though I was too foolish to see what we had then.” 

 

“Shh,” Flint says, and Silver realizes that it’s not just his own hands that are shaking, as Flint puts his hand over Silver’s. His hands are warm and Silver feels so cold, as Flint’s hand clasps over his. “Silver, I don’t know what - "

 

Silver tries to listen, now, but his eyelids grow heavier with each moment. The water has slipped up to his chin, and he thinks about a smile as bright as the light reflecting off of a sword, enough to illuminate even the darkest of nights. 

 

There’s more muffled noise, but Silver lets his eyes shut. Flint squeezes onto his hand just a little too tight, but then the ship tilts again, and water is filling his lungs.

 

 Silver gasps in, out, feels his throat burning, but before long, everything goes dark. 

 

 

•••

 

Then he wakes up, hands scrabbling at his own throat, still tasting the brackish water. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It takes several minutes of greedily inhaling air before Silver can focus on his surroundings.

 

He recognizes the Walrus’s galley. In the dim light of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, he can see Randall still asleep on the sacks across from him. Silver forces himself to take more deep breaths in and out as he swings on the scratchy cloth of the hammock. It doesn’t escape his notice that his hand still tingles from a phantom tight grip.  It’s early on his tenure with the Walrus, but exactly when, he's not sure. 

 

The pressure in his chest recedes enough for Silver eventually to climb to his feet. The men around him are also getting up, and there’s an uneasy quality to the air that immediately sets Silver on guard. He climbs up the ladder to the top deck with the rest of him, squinting in the morning light. 

`

They’re sailing somewhere, but Silver can’t find any significance in the bits of shoreline that they’re sailing by. The damp deck - it must have rained last night - groans lightly under his feet as he walks. For a moment, he wonders if this is just a non-significant memory he’s reliving. The men are all strangely quiet, though, as he falls in line with a crowd of them, all glancing nervously towards wherever they’re headed. Silver is already peering through the crowd, past the others, trying to find one particular man, as he joins them. 

 

 He needs to find Flint, convince him somehow to trust him, even though he knows that he's far from trusting this early on. Even if Flint won’t believe him- even if he kills him again - he needs to try. For a moment, he’s caught in the new memory, of Flint’s horrified face watching him from above the water - that he bumps into another one of the crew members.

 

“Watch it,” the man says nastily, but his eyes dart right back to the bow of the ship. “Bloody cook."

 

Silver looks, too. There’s an upcoming curve of land, indicative of a bay to their port side. It looks familiar, but before he can piece it together, there’s a sudden hush that falls over the deck. Silver feels a sudden shiver come over him before he hears the voice.

 

“Listen here!” The shout is unmistakeable, and like a reed in a wind-blown marsh, Silver turns with the other crew members to look at him. Flint is younger, angrier, his hair still long enough to pull back as he positions himself with the simmering charisma he wears as well as his own skin. He steps forward so that the men can see him fully, as if daring them to look away. 

 

Silver can’t focus on what he’s saying for a moment, something close to relief filling his chest at the sight of him. Ever since this first started, he’s been faced with two situations - either he’s trapped in these memories over and over again, doomed to be miserable, to die by some mechanism, even killed by Flint’s hand. Or, eventually, he’s going to wake up in a world where he doesn’t see Flint again.

 

He knows which he would choose, in a heartbeat. It should scare him, but really, isn't he past lying to himself?

 

“-with our guns, and then take the that fight to her decks,” Flint continues, as Silver tunes in again. "That fight will be the fight of our lives-“ 

 

Silver’s stomach drops. He knows those words. 

 

“But on the other side, lies paradise,” Flint ends, and there’s cheering from the men around Silver.  

 

The Urca. He should have known it would be this.

 

Silver realizes that he can’t tell Flint that they’ll be looking at an empty bay in a matter of minutes. Flint would likely shoot him in between breaths and not think twice. But he can’t just let this play out - he can’t _not_ try - so beyond all better sense, Silver pushes through the men until he’s climbing up onto the deck, approaching him. 

 

“Captain-“

 

“Not now, Mr. Silver,” Flint says, not lowering his spyglass. 

 

“ _Captain_ , “ Silver implores, but Flint ignores him. Silver swears low, under his breath, and he glances around, watching Dufresne and DeGroot exchange hushed words behind Flint’s back. 

 

He knows what Flint sees - or rather, what he doesn’t - without looking, when it happens. Flint’s entire frame stiffens, and Silver can imagine the look on his face as he lowers the spyglass, amid the shocked muttering of the crew below them. Flint doesn’t fully turn around, but Silver can see the twitching muscle on his lip. 

 

“ _Where is it_ ,”  Flint snarls, pitched so that only Silver can hear. “Where is the _fucking_ Urca? _"_

 

“I don’t know,” Silver lies, quietly, because he’s realized the predicament he’s in now. “Captain, if there’s no ship there-“ 

 

“The ship isn’t here,” Flint tells him. “The only reason I’m not cutting your throat right now is that I have to worry about a crew of mutinous men before I can _deal_ with you.” He turns back to the water, fingers digging into the wood as though he's trying to keep from reaching through the air to drag the ship right there in front of them. 

 

Silver swallows, but the fear isn’t from Flint’s threats. “The information was good, if you would let me _explain_ -“

 

"Don’t think that the moment that this is resolved that I won’t do something about you _,_ Mr. Silver,” Flint says suddenly. “I don’t care for your _explanation._ ”  

 

Then he’s pushing by Silver then to confer with Gates. Silver can only watch as they argue, Flint’s shoulders in a tense line. It's all playing out like he remembers. His lip curls in frustration, suddenly furious in his inability to act or convince Flint in this. 

 

Silver watches from the background as Gates steps away, leaving the captain motionless. Dufresne steps up, delivers his ultimatum to him after conferring with the others. He sees as Flint doesn’t as much blink from where he's fixed on the empty bay- but then it happens. 

 

“Sails! To the south!” The call comes, and Flint’s eyes flick back, past Dufresne, past Silver, towards where the men are turning. He’s already moving before they can all react, coming to stand at the other rail. Silver pushes by Dufresne to stand right next to him. 

 

“Captain-“ Silver tries again, but Flint is too focused at looking through the glass again. The sight of the man of war has cast a desperate air over the ship, the crew murmuring between each other. 

 

As Flint tells them that they’re going to fight this, Silver is struck again at the helplessness that courses through him. Flint looks at him, as though he can feel Silver’s eyes on him, and but then he’s turning away from Silver’s gaze as Gates approaches once again. 

 

Silver sees Gates grabs Flint’s arm, roughly, and he steels himself because he knows what happens next. He knows what he’ll need to do - otherwise, it will be the one of the other crew that breaks into the cabin as Flint’s cradling Gates’s body. He won’t - can’t - let that happen, so Silver is forced to wait outside, as the two men disappear into the cabin. 

 

His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his fingers. He gets a few strange looks, but his anxiety can probably be passed off for the fact that there’s a Spanish warship looming. Silver only wishes it were that simple. 

 

When he deems enough time has passed, when DeGroot and Dufresne look like they’re about to mutiny - and they do, Silver thinks to himself - Silver slips away to the cabin. He tries to remember what he did last time. Did he just bolt in, or did he knock, not knowing, before coming in to the grisly scene before him?

 

He opens the door after the brief hesitation, and Silver freezes at the sight before him.

 

Because of course, he’s managed to fuck this up too - Flint and Gates are in the middle of grappling. Silver meets Flint’s wild eyes over Gate’s head for one, brief moment - both their actions stopped by the intrusion - before Gates seizes the opportunity of Flint's slackened grip to grab the knife at his hip. 

 

Flint grunts, as other man uses his momentary distraction to buck Flint's arms off from around him, shouldering him away. Gates swipes out with the knife, and as Silver casts around for a weapon of some sort - Flint steps in. He's trying to get the knife, catching Gate’s wrist, but as Silver gets his hands around another sword by the bookshelves, Gates evades him and drives the knife up into Flint's stomach. 

 

Silver doesn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knows, Gates is on the ground, and Silver's hands are wrapped around the other man's neck. Silver watches as though he is detached, as he grabs the front of Gates's shirt, hoisting him up to slam him back down into the floor of the cabin. There's a sickening thud when Gates' head connects with the ground, his face still drawn in surprise that Silver had lunged at him, and then he's limp in Silver's hands - either dead or unconscious, Silver doesn't care. 

 

He crawls over to Flint, then, who's looking with a nearly bemused expression down at the blood stain that grows under his shirt. Silver catches him, lowering Flint's heavy weight to the ground of the cabin, propping his head up on his own thigh. 

 

"You bastard," Silver tells him, hands moving to press at Flint's injury. “Fuck-"

 

Flint tries to speak, maybe, but then his eyes are rolling back. Some part of Silver's mind sees the wound, knows that he's lost too much blood, but that small scared part of him still moves frantically, pressing down until Flint's hissing through his teeth, hands weakly coming up to bat at Silver’s wrists. 

 

"No," Silver says desperately, looks at Flint's pale face. "No-"

 

Something in Flint's face changes, and he exhales, hands falling back to his sides. The look on his face is resigned, although there’s a small twist to his mouth, as though he’s starting to smile. There’s a strange sound echoing in the cabin, something high pitched and strained, as Silver presses down more on his stomach. 

 

"You can't, I won't let you," Silver tells him, bent over him as though it's too painful to be upright. "You can't do this, not to me-"

 

Another breath passes through Flint's mouth, as he stills entirely. Silver realizes that the gasping, pained noises are coming from him.

 

 "No,” he says, leaning over until his forehead's pressed against Flint’s, “No- _please, God, no_ -“

 

 

•••

 

 

When the pounding knock at the door comes, Silver's sitting, staring at Flint's limp form. Even as the knock increases in its volume, Silver turns his head when he hears an intake of breath. 

 

Gates is awake, and although he's on the ground, his head's turned to face Flint. "What-"

 

Silver gets up, mechanically, even as he hears the shouting on the other side of the door. "An old friend told me once," he says, nearly conversationally, even as his hands shake ever so slightly, "About the worst day of his life."

 

Gates props himself up on his elbows, but before he can move, Silver puts his boot firmly on the center of his chest and pushes down. Gates gasps in pain, fear- and Silver doesn't care. 

 

"You're a good man," he tells him. "I think you were a good friend to him."

 

"Silver," Gates starts, then hisses when Silver presses down again. His hands stop shaking. 

 

"This friend, he was betrayed by someone he considered close once," Silver tells him, and he feels the shift of his voice, into something first born in a dark tavern, as he held a book up and made his name known. "He was called a monster, something reviled, hid away from the light."

 

Gates takes a sharp breath in when Silver lets some of the pressure go. "Flint was going to lead us to our deaths-"

 

"And you know what he said?" Silver continues, "After he engineered his revenge, the last comfort derived from the tragedy that was forced onto him?" 

 

Gates doesn't answer, not as Silver bends to whisper right to him, as he draws the knife. 

 

"I will be your monster," Silver says, and he cuts Gates's throat.

 

Behind him, the door bursts open, and Silver rises as Gates dies below him. He faces the light coming in from outside, the shocked faces there, and he closes his eyes. 

 

 

•••

 

 

They put him down in the galley. One of them ties his hands together in front of him, and then they leave him to consider the mildew growing on the ceiling above. 

 

Without Flint or Gates, the two ships will be cast into anarchy. Silver knows this. None of them are vicious enough to outright execute him, not without a trial, and everyone’s nerves are too frayed to hold a trial today. 

 

Silver listens, as faintly he can hear DeGroot gives the order to disengage. If they’re lucky, they’ll be able to flee the warship - but only the Walrus. The other ship has to be left behind. The Walrus goes underway, and Silver breathes in the musty, sweet smell of rot and wood and salt.

 

The exhaustion sweeps over him, and he can feel his eyelids getting heavy. He doesn’t fight it. 

 

He needs this nightmare to be over. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Only he wakes up, and he’s still in the galley. 

 

Silver’s stomach would churn cold if there was any warmth left in him. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut again, waiting to be pulled into the next memory. His wrists ache from where the rope’s chafed at the skin there. 

 

A long time later, he opens his eyes, but he’s still in the galley. He’s still got Flint’s blood on his hands. 

 

And so the nightmare goes on. 

 

 

•••

 

 

The debating starts when they’re nearly a day away from the bay, managing to avoid the war ship. Silver is dragged up, his knees knocking into steps as they pull him to the deck. He feels hollow in a way that he hasn’t in a long time, the years having taught him how to stuff routine through the cracks so he doesn’t feel so empty inside. 

 

Most of the men look exhausted from fleeing from the warship all night. The water out here is calm, flat, and as Dufresne reads the charges out against him, Silver focuses on the sway of the ship beneath his feet.

 

He considers his options. He could let whatever happen, happen.

 

But he looks around at the men’s faces- men he considered brothers, once - and there’s the other option. These are men who would eventually die for him. Men who he had led to great things. Men who he knows he could sway, even now, even before he had lost a leg for them. 

 

Men who had led to him holding Flint in the cabin, who had let to Silver watching a future they had never had be ripped away. 

 

On the deck, Dufresne has taken charge,  in the absence of any real leader. Silver can’t keep his lip from curling at the idea, and it seems he is’t alone in that thought, at the very least. Already he can see how the men are uneasily shifting among each other, as Dufresne tries to bluster his way into a more secure seat to get the captain’s seat. 

 

He wonders if anyone said anything when they hoisted Flint’s body overboard. If they had stopped to watch the wrapped body sink slowly into the waves, or if it had been an afterthought, a conclusion that had been overdue. He wonders if he would have thrown himself over at the sight, if he had been there.

 

The monster in his chest is still pulling, aching to get the bitter satisfaction of revenge. 

 

The men are arguing about what to do with _him_ , and Silver listens now. He’s killed Gates, that that’s the crime they see most heinous - and if they think he killed Flint, most of them aren’t even thinking about how to punish that.

 

But what they don’t take account for is the fact that they need vision. They need someone to guide them, to tell them how high to jump - and Silver has always been one to seize that sort of opportunity. He watches, and he knows exactly what he needs to say. 

 

Silver waits until they are silent. He has years of experience in this that none of them could ever imagine him possessing, and so when they finally fall quiet, uncertainty saturating the air around him, he speaks. The men around him bristle, at first, as Silver raises his voice to quell the angry grumbling, but then they listen, as he coaxes them to his side.

 

And they listen, as he tells them that he’s still the only one to get them to the gold. Silver can nearly see the greed burn in their eyes, robbing their vision in favor of the idea of unimaginable wealth, even as they had nearly lost everything less than a day ago. 

 

When Silver goes back down below to the galley, the men are talking among themselves in hushed tones. 

 

He’s not surprised when he wins the vote. 

 

In a matter of hours, Silver has his hands untied. He’s in the captain’s cabin with a bowl of water, and he watches as the water turns murky from the dried blood. Dufresne had gone down below deck after the vote had been announced, DeGroot and Howell close behind. They’ll be the main dissenters, he knows, but their voices will be silenced soon.

 

In the dim light, he traces his fingers over the spines of the books tucked away on the shelves. He pauses when his fingertip brushes dark red leather, before pushing it back, deeper into the bookshelf, until he can nearly forget that it’s there.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

Rather then go back to Nassau at first, Silver has them seek out prize ships, easy targets, until he knows enough time has passed that the gold lying on the beach is unguarded. Even the most unimaginable wealth brings no feeling back to him, as he watched them carry chests upon chests on board. They end up taking the warship, killing the remaining soldiers with ease.

 

When they sail into Nassau with the ship, Silver doesn’t hesitate before giving the order to fire upon the fort. He doesn’t give a damn about the future of Nassau, not when his was taken away. He watches the stone facade crumble, hears the screams all the way out into the bay, and he doesn’t move. 

 

Vane and the other pirates flee, all their men left behind too drawn to the prospect of gold that Silver offers now, above any sort of honor to their names. Silver doesn’t step into the fort once they deposit it there, under the ruins. The gold meaningless to him, but he asks that Eleanor Guthrie give him the names of the magistrates all over the Caribbean in exchange. 

 

He considers going to the exterior, to visit a small house past the hills, to tell a woman living there about the man he had seen die. But he knows that he wouldn’t be able to explain what he had lost, wouldn’t be able to explain how they share this grief - so he avoids the Barlow cottage, avoids Nassau as much as he can. 

 

With two legs this time, Silver’s able to lead the vanguard to ransacking the towns, the ports, the magistrates’s homes. They call him a monster, and he revels in it. They call him John the Giant, and he lives up to that name.

 

“You speak for England, then?” Silver says in a low voice, to the terrified official who’s bleeding on the ground in front of him. 

 

“Y-yes,” the man stutters. “I’ll give you whatever you want-"

 

Silver cocks the gun. “I want to hear you _beg_.” 

 

“You- you- please-“

 

Silver shoots him anyways. 

 

 Silver promised the men war against those that would see them hung, and he leads the vanguard to bloody victory time and time again. In between refueling the ship and losing himself in drink, the months pass quickly.

 

He wakes up every morning to the same world, and it’s certainly some kind of hell to be alone like this. At night, he goes through the books on Flint’s shelves, imagining Flint sitting in this seat, doing the same thing.

 

 But the pages are dead, giving no hint of the man who came before him, just like they are no longer trees. Once Silver has memorized them, pored over every page as if they’ll give him Flint back, he doesn’t touch them again. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Silver meets with Eleanor Guthrie when he’s back in Nassau. He has to give the woman credit, for she took the news of his captaincy in stride when he first sailed into the bay. As long as he doesn’t turn his sights to her throne, she won’t turn on him. 

 

The meeting is brief, as Eleanor curtly tells him to close the door on his way out. She doesn’t like him, that’s for sure, but as long as he earns the most money, she doesn’t mind how much blood is on the coins.

 

He goes to the tavern, where it’s too late to be anything other than quiet and smoky. There’s still music trickling in from the brothel across the street, as he sits at the bar by himself. 

 

He's is midway through a pitcher of ale when a small hand lands on his arm. 

 

Silver stiffens, about to throw the hand’s owner to the ground, when he recognizes the dark eyes that are watching him. 

 

“You have not been here in some time,” Max says. She’s wearing a dark blue dress that is drawn tightly in grey ribbon at the waist. It makes him think of a dark storm cresting over a horizon. 

 

He turns back to his glass, as the hand falls off his arm. “I’ve been busy,” he says, staring into the liquid in his mug. 

 

He can feel the weight of Max’s gaze on the side of his face. “The men in here, they were talking about you.”

 

“Were they, now,” Silver says. 

 

“They said that you fight as though you are a man about to die at any moment,” Max says. “They say that you are a revenant, come back to exact your revenge on all those who would have scoffed at you once, to satisfy your bloodlust.” 

 

Silver finishes his ale. “I don’t care for those tales. If you’ll excuse me-“ 

 

“They say that the moment Flint died, you lost your heart as well,” Max says flatly, and Silver stills. “Some disregard that, the idea that such personal matters would be the cause of your ire, but I have seen you in here before. The whores you buy here, they all have red hair, do they not?” 

 

“What do you want?” His voice is low, and Max steps close so that they can hear each other even though there’s only a few stragglers left behind in the tavern. The noise fades away as Max leans in again. 

 

“Charles Vane wants revenge. I have it on good authority that he will be making a move on you. I do not know where he is, or what he intends, but you must be very careful on who you allow into your bed,” Max says in a low voice, her fingers back to digging into his arm. “It would not be beyond thought to assume that he will have enlisted the help of Edward Teach, as well, to take back the fort.” 

 

“What do you care?” Silver asks, looking at her. “My coin is the same as anyone else’s.”

 

Max frowns. “It is beyond your coin,” she says, “That I care about. I do not wish to see further violence mar this island, which Vane and Teach will most certainly bring with them in the attempt to win it back."

 

“It’s nothing to do with the fact that when Vane is on these shores, Eleanor Guthrie becomes compromised, then?” Silver bites out. “I don’t believe I’m the only one who has _personal matters_.” 

 

They’re both quiet for a moment, before Max reaches over the bar, pulls out another bottle and another glass, pouring them both rum. “I will forgive you for saying that,” she says evenly, “If you tell me you will have a solution to this problem that will arise.” 

 

Silver lets the rum burn down his throat for a moment. “I think you have an answer that I will need,” he says finally, because he’s known that this day will come, when he needs to ask her this. 

 

A small line appears in her forehead. “What is it?” 

 

“You know of a place where English families send prisoners in Florida,” Silver says, even as Max looks more and more perplexed on the shift in their conversation. “I need you to introduce me to your agent who told you this.” 

 

He kills the man Max sends him to, and he tells the crew they’re sailing to Savannah. 

 

 

•••

 

 

Silver breathes in through the dark cloth that’s wrapped around his face, as the men rush around him. The air is thick from smoke, from the fires they had lit just outside the plantation gates. When the guards had rushed out, they had easily ambushed them, gaining access inside as night had fallen. 

 

As he goes by the smoldering remains of the main house, wiping the blood off of his sword, he sees the long buildings where they keep the prisoners. It takes one, two kicks for him to break down the door, the pale wood splintering so he can swing it open. 

 

The men inside have already gathered, though they are an unarmed crowd. Silver looks through the terrified faces - the ex-lords, the political prisoners, as close to good men as you get in this world - and one stands out in particular. He’s standing to the side, fists clenched, but the line of his back is too straight, proper despite all the time that’s gone by since his days in London. 

 

He’s looking at Silver with questions visibly running through his mind, but there’s a stubborn tightness in his jaw that makes Silver want to smile, something in him aching despite the fact they’ve never actually met, not in their world nor any other. He keeps his face flat. 

 

“Thomas Hamilton,” Silver says only part to confirm, more just to feel the name roll off his tongue. The man’s eyes widen slightly, before he takes a step forward. 

 

“That’s me,” he says steadily, as though he’s about to - Christ, he thinks that Silver’s come to kill him. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“You’re coming with me,” Silver says, and he pauses, when Thomas starts to open his mouth. “You don’t have to, I suppose. We’ve come to set you all free.” 

 

“You’re going to have to forgive me- “ the ex-lord stops. “What is your name?” 

 

“Silver,” he says. “John Silver.” 

 

“Mr. Silver,” Thomas continues, and Silver swallows. “I apologize, but I have no reason to trust you in this moment.” He smiles, half-deprecatingly, and something in Silver’s blood boils just a little when Thomas holds up scarred wrists, from years of manacles. He should’ve killed Oglethorpe much slower. “All of us here have learned to take no man at their word, after all.” 

 

“We had a mutual friend,” Silver says, and he steels himself, but his voice still sounds unsteady to his own ears. “I knew James.”

 

The expressions that flit across Thomas’s face should be private, too raw to look at fully. One of the men beside him extends his arm, pressing it into the small of Thomas’s back as a means to comfort, Silver supposes. He knows that no amount of touch can sooth this particular ache though, just as he knows Thomas has noted the use of the past tense. His eyes close for a long moment. 

 

“Very well,” Thomas tells him, opening those bright blue eyes to fix on his face, though they’ve seem to be dim now. “I will go with you.” 

 

 

•••

 

 

Back on the ship, Thomas is silent as Silver leads him into the cabin, past the questioning looks of the crew. Silver had heard stories of this man, of how he could enthrall others with his witty words, but the man in front of Silver seems far too broken at the news Silver had given him. Once they’re inside, Thomas stands in the middle of the room, taking it all in. He had told Thomas that this had been Flint’s, once. 

 

“I brought you here so that we could talk,” Silver tells him, even as Thomas turns, back facing him, to look around the space.

 

“You knew James,” he starts without preamble, and Silver blinks. 

 

“I did,” he says. “We- we were friends, once.” 

 

“He told you about me."

 

“He did,” Silver says. “He didn’t know you were alive.”

 

“Friends, you say,” Thomas says, almost like he’s drifting in thought, but Silver stays focused on the broad line of his back, barely illuminated through the cabin windows. 

 

“We were.” 

 

“You were more than that though, weren’t you?” Thomas asks, but his voice is flat. Silver blinks again, hard. “James never did have friends. He had acquaintances, I suppose-“ and he casts a sideways look at Silver, measuring. “And then he had the people he loved.” 

 

“I loved him,” Silver says. “I still do.” 

 

“How did he-“ and Thomas breaks off. Silver looks away, as if to give him a small measure of privacy, as the other man wipes his face. “How did it happen?” 

 

“He left England with Miranda,” Silver tells him quietly, and when Thomas turns to face him, his cheeks are wet. “He became a captain. He started this war, to right the wrongs committed against them, against you. A man he called a friend rose against him, tried to put an end to it all.” 

 

“I knew it when it happened,” Thomas says heavily. “One day - it just felt wrong. This world, it felt empty in a way I couldn’t put words to. I suppose then, I just knew.” 

 

“She’s still alive,” Silver says, and Thomas turns, sharply. “Miranda is in Nassau. I can take you to her.”

 

Thomas closes his eyes, again, and the relief there is temporary, before he opens them again to be fixed on Silver. “How do I know any of this is true? You claim you knew James, but I still have no reason to trust you.”

 

Silver grits his teeth, feels the muscles in his neck tense, coiling tight inside him. “You don’t. You shouldn’t.” He walks by, and as Thomas’s gaze follows him, he draws the red bound book from the bookshelf. It’s covered in dust, now, but Silver sees the moment Thomas recognizes it, as his fingers touch the cover.

 

“I’ll take you back to Nassau,” Silver says, as Thomas cradles the cover, as if he doesn’t dare open it. “You can still find happiness there.” 

 

“Tell me, Mr. Silver,” Thomas says, unable to look away from _Meditations. “_ Are you happy?”

 

“Never,” Silver says, and then he leaves Thomas alone in the cabin, so that he can gasp in the warm night air, hands digging into the wood of the railing. 

 

 

•••

 

 

He stays on the ship when they get into Nassau. He had sent ahead a messenger so that Miranda would be notified, and he watches from the bow as Thomas gets onto the dock, his feet unsteady, right into Miranda’s arms. He can imagine how their faces will be pressed together, as they clutch onto each other and weep, for the relief of being reunited, as well as for their lost love. 

 

He remembers when he had come back to Nassau after that first assault, and he had run into Madi’s arms upon seeing her again. As he had breathed in her warm smell, felt her run her fingers over his face as if to map it out all over again, for a moment, Silver had imagined Flint with them. He was taller than both of them, and his arms would have been long enough to wrap around both of them, so that Silver could be between the two people he loved the most. Pressed between their embrace and safe. 

 

Then, he had waved it off as some delusion - he hadn’t slept in a long time - or worse, he had passed off on it as something that he could contemplate later. Then, they had a war to fight, and they were diving head first into it all just after that perfect moment. He thought he had the time to explore that, that he could easily push it down deep into his chest for now. 

 

Silver thinks Madi had known, as she had traced his face lightly that night when they were in bed, and she had told him of how she and Flint had grown close those past few days. He had chuckled, made some joke about the two of them running off and saddling him with this war, even as her knowing eyes had fallen on how he had fiddled with the rings on his fingers. 

 

He should’ve turned around, then. Extended a hand out to Flint, drawn him in close. But he didn’t, and he’s paying that price. 

 

The wind that rolls over the deck is surprisingly cold, and Silver turns around just as the men are climbing over the edge.

 

Vane is in the second wave of pirates. As the Walrus’s crew, caught off guard, are slaughtered around him, Silver meets his eyes steadily. He feels no fear, and that makes Vane stop for a moment, though he’s already drawn his pistol. 

 

“You know why,” Vane rumbles, and Silver finally lets a smile come across his face. 

 

“I’m ready,” he says, not to Vane, as the pistol comes up to point right at him. 

 

 

•••

 

 

The lurching sensation around his navel is entirely unexpected, as Silver opens his eyes to an overcast sky. 

 

He’s in a rowboat, the sounds of the oars clunking slightly in the oarlocks before gently sliding into the water the only thing he can hear. Silver stares up at the clouds slowly drifting overhead, before lowering his head to see where he is. 

 

There are several men in between them, but Silver pays them no mind, not when he sees the shaved head, the dark shirt, near instantly, at the bow. 

 

He’s not aware he’s moving until he hears the surprised curses of the men, as he clambers his way to the front of the rowboat, the boat lurching under his movements. His stump hits painfully against the seats, but he’s too focused on getting to him. 

 

Flint turns around, looks at him questioningly - and Silver has to curl his hand into his own jacket, so that he doesn’t put a hand against Flint’s jaw in front of all these men, as Flint lets him just look at him. It’s although he’s been trapped in the doldrums all over again, and Flint is the welcome wind, as Silver drinks in the sight of him - the smear of blood on his temple, the bruises under his eyes. 

 

There’s a long moment when they’re just staring at each other, as the men regain balance of the rowboat, and continue their way to shore. Flint leans in slightly, and Silver maps out the growing stubble over his temples, the way the collar of his shirt has unfolded. 

 

 “What is it?” Flint asks, simply, and it’s a good thing that Silver is sitting when he can feel his knees go weak at the gravelly tone he’s missed all this time. Silver sits down on the seat beside him, feels the line of Flint’s thigh pressed against his. 

 

He realizes what the boat means. They’re headed back to Skeleton Island- and cold fear prickles at Silver’s gut. Flint looks at him like he’s the center of the universe, that it’s just the two of them floating around each other, but there’s distance in his eyes.

 

 He knows what happens on this day - and he can’t let it happen. 

 

“We need to talk,” Silver says.

 

 

•••

 

 

On the island, Silver orders the men to stay on the beach before they even get out of the rowboat. He picks up the shovel, as to not give Flint cause for concern, then remembers that he has a crutch to worry about. 

 

Flint holds out a hand. “Allow me,” he says, and Silver hands him the shovel. Flint’s hands curl around the handle, pausing a moment too long, before he starts walking, his boots leaving deep imprints in the sand. Silver follows him into the woods.

 

They’re walking for about half an hour, Silver watching the back of his head, but it’s all different this time, it has to be - before Flint stops. 

 

“We won't be going any farther," Flint says. Around them, the mist wraps around the trees, blanketing them from the skies. 

 

Silver stays silent. A fly lands on crutch, and he watches as it makes its way up the grain of the wood.

 

"I won't take another step towards that chest, until I know for certain that I'm wrong about what I suspect is happening here,” Flint continues, and now that Silver is hearing this all over again, he can hear the heartbreak straining the words, threatening to snap whatever lies in between them. 

 

“What is happening here?” he croaks, and Flint turns around. 

 

"I show you the chest, we bring it out of the ground,” he says, steadliy. “Then I don't know what then exactly, but I doubt it involves returning it to the camp as planned.”

 

Silver lets the words wash over him, as Flint continues, "Am I wrong? Tell me I am and we'll continue on our way.” There’s nearly a pleading look in his eyes, one that Silver didn’t notice before, but then it’s replaced with resignation as Flint sighs. It's a rattling sound that sounds like shaking a cage’s bars, as he evidently finds his answer in Silver’s silence.

 

“Was it us?” Flint asks then, pained. “Was it me? Was - this, not enough?”

 

“You could never be not enough,” Silver tells him, not letting him continue down this path. “You are everything.”

 

“Then why?” Flint says, and he’s taking a step closer to Silver and Silver- Silver is struck by the desperate look in his eyes. “Why do it? Why trick Madi, fool me-“

 

“Because I can’t let you throw your life away!” Silver shouts, and it’s enough to startle the birds that had been nesting in the tree near them. There’s a clatter of motion, wings flapping and leaves falling gently to the ground, and he can feel his breath come in heavier, harder. It’s an old argument and a new one all at once, one that Silver has dreamed of many times - and now that he’s reliving it, he’s _afraid_ in a way he could never comprehend before. 

 

“Throw my life away,” Flint repeats, his eyes hardening. “You would call this throwing my life away-“

 

“Your end lies at the end of this,” Silver says, “One way in blood and death. But there’s another way, there always is -“

 

“You can’t know that,” Flint whispers, and the words cut into Silver deeply as he repeats them. “ You can’t. This is more important than me. I know that, as does she-“ 

 

“Don’t bring her into this,” Silver says harshly. “This is between you, and me. It always has been.” He stops, watches as the fly buzzes away, disappearing into the fog, trying to keep calm. “She knows _that_.” 

 

_“Then why_?” Flint asks, his eyes searching for answers to questions that Silver doesn’t even fully know himself. “Why any of this? It can’t be as something as base as jealousy-“

 

“Jealousy,” Silver repeats, and he laughs before he can help it, an ugly sound that would make him cringe if not for the anger that’s flooding him now. “Are you kidding me?” 

 

“Not in that way,” Flint says with an edge to his voice. “You know that in this, she and I are of one mind. I cannot fathom why you wouldn’t be-“ 

 

“He’s alive,” Silver interrupts, because it was always coming to this. Flint’s eyes widen like before, and Silver continues, “He’s in Savannah. I found out - I did it so that you would leave this, willingly.”

 

“He can’t be,” Flint says, as Silver pulls out the letter he’s been holding onto ever since they fled Nassau. “I didn’t think you would be this cruel, either."

 

“Thomas is in Savannah,” Silver tells him, and Flint’s staring at the paper even though there’s no way he can see the careful handwriting inside. “I’m going to bring you to him."

 

“Why do this?" Flint says, quiet now, and the paper flies, forgotten, from Silver’s fingers. “Why the deception, why coming up with this plot?"

 

“Because I can’t see you die,” Silver says, and he lets the desperate tone that he’s been trying to control bleed out into his voice. “Fuck you, if that’s so impossible for you to understand. Do you think I am some kind of _monster_ that would see you destroyed for my own personal gain?”

 

“I think that you don’t understand the consequences of your actions,” Flint says quietly. “I don’t think you know how far you extend in this.” 

 

Silver turns at that, feeling like he’s been hit low in his stomach. He goes over to a nearby tree, putting his weight against it and closes his eyes. For a stretch of time, they’re both silent. Silver can hear Flint breathing in and out behind him, the slight shift of his weight on the forest floor.

 

“Atlas held the universe up,” Silver says then, feeling the bark dig underneath his palms as he grips the surface tighter, willing himself to breathe in and out as well. “You told me that Heracles had him fetch the golden apples. That when he came back, he tricked Atlas.”

 

“What did you just say?” Flint’s voice sounds from behind him, tense now. 

 

“You had me think that you were the Atlas to my Heracles,” Silver continues, his eyes still shut, “Heracles doomed him, just as I feared I would be the end of you. But there’s always another version. You chose the unhappy ending, you see, the one with the largest difference between us and them. Heracles didn’t love Atlas.”

 

 Silver opens his eyes, feels as though his ribs have cracked open to reveal his quickly-beating heart as he finishes, “I would have torn down the sky for you. I would have ripped apart the constellations so that you wouldn’t have to carry them on your shoulders. I would have doomed the universe before I would have struck you with that burden.” 

 

“I told you that?” Flint asks quietly. “That myth?"

 

“You wouldn’t remember,” Silver says, turning around. “But that’s not the point. What-“

 

“No, I told you that,” Flint repeats, and Silver realizes that he’s not asking. Flint’s watching him very carefully. “You didn’t read it, or at least not at first. I told you that.” 

 

Silver is at a loss for words. There’s no way that Flint can remember - 

 

But he remembers. He remembers Flint’s tear-stained face in the dim light of his cabin, as they were starved from food and of what could be from each other. The way that Flint is looking at him now -

 

“How,” Silver breathes out. “This hasn’t happened before.”

 

“The next day, you acted as though none of it had happened,” Flint says, still watching his face with _wonder_ , Silver realizes. “The day we rowed out to the dead whale. I assumed that you were still angry. But then I realized that you looked at me differently, that day. As though you had known me for far longer.” 

 

He stops, as though he can’t see how Silver is reeling. "A few months ago, you looked at me when I asked you to tell me your past-“ Silver’s throat begins to close up as his hands open and close at his sides, as he wants to reach - “And that same look was in your eyes then, I saw. I didn’t know how, but I knew it was you then.” Flint exhales. “It’s how you look at me now.” 

 

“I’ve been living through these memories,” Silver croaks. “I lived through this. I know you’re going to hate me, and that’s fine - but I won’t lose you again.” 

 

“Then don’t,” Flint says.  Silver takes a step, then another, until he’s falling on his knees. His leg protests as it splays out on the leaves and dirt, but Silver ignores the pain, not when he can reach and clasp Flint’s hand. Not when Flint is there and in front of them, and he looks so young, his green eyes wide as they take Silver in.

 

Flint stiffens when Silver tugs on his arm, but he looks down at him like he’s the one asking for absolution, even though Silver is the one on the ground. “Tell me,” Flint says even quieter, his hand warm in Silver’s as his fingers twist into his. “Tell me what you’ve done. Let me hate you.”

 

“I’ve done too much,” Silver says, and he leans up so that he can lay a shaky, dry kiss onto Flint’s bloodied knuckles. “I want to carry the stars, right next to you."

 

Flint drops to his knees as well, then, his hands coming around Silver’s face. Silver lets himself falls forward more, and then he’s sobbing into Flint's shoulder, into the shirt covered in blood and dirt. 

 

There aren’t words he can say, here, but when Flint tilts his head up, finally, Silver’s hand runs along his jaw before bringing him in for a kiss. His lips are chapped, and Silver can't tell which one of them still has the sea salt taste in their mouth, but as he deepens the kiss, he lets himself have this, lets his hands slide over the back of Flint’s head, feeling the stubble through his fingertips.

 

“All right,” Flint says raggedly, as Silver’s fingers dig into his shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises. Silver clutches onto him, breathes him in, as Flint presses a kiss behind his ear, on the side of his head, the two of them holding onto each other like they’re the last ones left in the world. “I forgive you."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

There’s another jolting sensation, and Silver panics.

 

He can’t open his eyes- he won’t -

 

But then there’s a shushing sound, and Silver feels a hand fall to the side of his head. “You fell asleep,” Flint says in hushed tones, his thumb stroking along the top of Silver’s cheek. “I was going to wake you.”

 

The cart jolts again, and Silver clings onto the side for a moment, before sitting up. They’re moving slowly, the mule they had gotten far too old for any quick movement, but it’s steady in its own.

 

 “That’s all right,” Silver says, and he watches as the sun rises around them, how the pink and blue mottled tones of the dawn sky light up Flint’s profile. Relief is sweet in his mouth as he says, “I knew you were there.”

 

Silver will write a letter to Jack, telling him that Flint is dead. He’ll tell Ben Gunn or Hands to say that he couldn’t live with himself afterwards, that he fled or died or whatever will make them understand. 

 

 He’ll write another, longer one to Madi, asking for her forgiveness, telling her that she will have to fight this war without him. He’ll write that he loves her, that he was sorry he thought he could ever make that choice for her. He’ll tell her to fight for this, for them - all of them.

 

Flint will write to her as well. He’ll tell her that when she’s done, when England trembles before her, that she can come home. 

 

They’ll be waiting for her in Savannah.

 

•••

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in some lost strabo translation of the myth of heracles/atlas, heracles builds pillars on the ends of the world to release some of the weight off atlas, so jot that down)
> 
> thank you all for your lovely comments ❤︎ 
> 
> the title is from [this terribly good jack gilbert poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/tear-it-down)
> 
> i'm jamesbarlow on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> i'm jamesbarlow on tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "we must unlearn the constellations to see the stars" by lacecat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613237) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)
  * [Down Among the Dead Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11628624) by [hetrez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetrez/pseuds/hetrez)




End file.
